Cowley's Boys
by BeeHawYeeHaw
Summary: Just lunch spent with some friends. REVIEWS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED


Morse's right foot bounced in the air as he sat with it crossed over his left knee. The two aglets clicking softly against the leather with their momentum, creating a odd staccato pattern that Morse only half heard but wasn't put off by it. His ankle moved with it, he could feel the muscle contracting and loosening through the thin fabric if his trousers and then his socks. His knee on the other band stayed relatively still and acted as a stand for today's newspaper. He'd scanned through it just briefly, knowing most of the crime stories in it anyway and having no interest in the latest and greatest Best Front Lawn of the Month award winners. Nor did he pay any mind to the sports page or the adverts for jobs. Morse did, however, take a little glance at the little comic near the back, smiling ever so slightly as the smart joke it produced and its nice little drawings.

Instead, Morse headed straight to the crossword without actually heading to it. He came across it although Morse already knew which page it would be on and that he'd be sticking to that one until he finished the puzzle. It was also really the only reason he bought a paper, the crossword and short comedy strip. The news was rarely that interesting and if it was, he already heard of it when he was standing over the decaying body of a person, throat slit or neck snapped, drugs or a hit-and-run. He knew before the paper and the papers only printed if he, or any other copper about, told them. But the crosswords were always fun, a good challenge for the mind when he was doing nothing or waiting as DCI Thursday enjoyed his daily sandwich if whichever filling depending on the day's name.

He still didn't know Wednesday's. It gave Thursday the suspense Morse always took away when it was any other day.

Speaking of ham and tomato, his DCI was sat across from him, happily opening up his wrapped food in a wood booth. Morse gave him a quick glance, not saying anything or catching his eyes. He did smile to himself though.

"Luncheon meat, sir."

A disappointed groan dropped from Thursday's mouth and a tut followed.

"Morse, lad. Must you ruin the surprised?"

Morse gave a noise of acknowledgment, not looking up from his paper and spinning his pen around his fingers. He still kept his smug smile on his face, letting it rest happily there. Morse listened to the rustling of paper and Thursday's almost silently mutter of "Luncheon meat" as he filled in nine down, six letters and a rather simple one if he must say.

To his side came an amused sigh, short but Morse knew it would be accompanied by a smile that was trying to be concealed and smothered but breaking through anyway. That was Sergeant Strange, in his suit and tie with his hair slicked down maybe just a little too much. He was nursing a beer, the amber liquid half drunk and waiting patiently in its glass.

"What's this then?" Asked their newest lunch companion. Mr Bright. It was rare to see him out and about unless they were at a major crime scene or being called into his office for either praise or reprimand, sometimes both in Morse's case. Morse noticed Mr Bright looked a little odd in the setting of the pub they were in. He doesn't really think he's ever seen him anywhere else other than his home. It was interesting, to say the least. A man of such rank and reputation and prestige in a place where men would brawl over football winnings and where Thames Valley's detectives spent their lunch. Bright even had a beer of his own, not something fancy like Morse would have guessed.

He liked it.

"My sandwiches sir, my Win makes a different one each day, a surprise you see but Morse here spoils it before I've even got them on the table.

"It's the same filling every week, sir." Morse told his DCI, although they both already knew it and rather liked this little game between them. If Fred Thursday didn't have have sandwiches or Morse couldn't guess them then something was definitely wrong.

"I see." Was all Bright said with a smile as he sipped on his beer. Morse watched him in almost astoundment. Then he turned back to his crossword.

The thought of "George should be here too" flickered across his mind. Trewlove too. Hell even Jakes but at least he had moved onto better pastures, literally. Cowboy Jakes. He still couldn't imagine a man like Peter Jakes wearing cowboy boots, a hat and having a long piece of wheat sticking out of his mouth rather than his typical cigarette. It make him smile everytime he thought of it.

Shirley Trewlove was a good police officer. Not a police woman, a police officer. He didn't single her out from the men with that title because why should he? Trewlove was a valuable officer with a great mind and resilience. Scotland Yard had drawn the bigger stick there and Morse hoped she gets her rightful place as a commanding officer, Super Independent even. Maybe he would see her again.

George. George just deserved better. That's all he could really say.

"You stuck, matey?" Morse looked over, eyes blinking at his friend. All three sets of eyes were on him, all just looking intrigued or questioning as his pen hovered over an empty box on the paper.

"Huh?"

"Your crossword."


End file.
